As I stepped into our local pizza and arcade center, a wave of dread washed over me. There it was, a sign proclaiming free face painting available from noon until three. My original plan was to let the kids enjoy the climbing structure, grab some lunch, and perhaps try a few games—only to return home with a bunch of plastic trinkets destined for the trash. But how could I navigate that lengthy timeframe with an artist poised to paint my children’s faces, sending my already soaring anxiety into a tailspin?
Before I could divert her attention, my eldest daughter spotted the sign. “Mom! Can I get my face painted?”
Ugh! Why must she be so literate? “Let’s focus on the other fun activities, alright?” I replied, trying to steer her away.
Face painting was not in my mental playbook. I shouldn’t have to brace myself for something as trivial as an arcade outing, but with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder, even simple excursions feel monumental. The planning, the anticipation, the irritability, and the tightening panic make me a less-than-thrilled parent.
My children’s joy often comes at the expense of my peace of mind. What delights them sends me into a spiral. Face paint, bubbles, animal balloons, goody bags, bounce houses—the very thought fills me with dread.
I long to relish their beaming faces adorned with cat-themed designs, but I can’t help but fret over potential tantrums from smudged paint or stained clothing. I yearn to relax and appreciate our time out, yet my mind races with thoughts of finding the nearest restroom for the inevitable, and often simultaneous, urgent needs of my three kids. In public, at least one of them—usually all—will require a bathroom visit, and it’s a given that it’ll be a location devoid of toilet paper.
I wish I could just bask in the moment as they wield balloon swords like miniature knights. Instead, I obsess over when the balloons might pop, triggering tears, jealousy over each other’s prizes, and the looming reality of another long wait in line for replacements. Then there are the lurking concerns about germs, unknown viruses, and the very real threat of contamination with fecal matter. That ball pit? I can only think about how it’s likely to make at least one of my children sick within a few days. Those plastic balls have surely never seen a cleaning solution. As for the slides and tunnels they climb through? I can’t even bear to think about it.
Before you suggest therapy or urge me to relax and let my kids enjoy themselves, let me pause you right there. I’ve been in therapy for two decades. I take medication that helps to ease my days. I know I should be able to enjoy these moments, and the guilt of not doing so weighs heavily on me.
Living with OCD and anxiety means I often notice the chaos before I can appreciate the joy. I see the mess instead of creativity; I envision a bathroom littered with paint rather than a masterpiece. I don’t see sandcastles—just the grains that will migrate to my kitchen. I don’t only perceive clutter and grime; I feel it in my bones. It’s exhausting.
Yet, I remind myself that my children don’t see the world through the same lens. They remain blissfully unaware of my internal struggles. They are too young to grasp mental illness or understand why a simple trip to the arcade makes my skin crawl. Their self-absorption is a blessing, allowing them to enjoy their painted noses without concern.
Eventually, I hope to share my journey with them, explaining why I take medication for challenges I’ve tried to manage alone. I want them to know seeking help for mental health is a strength, not a weakness. I refuse to let stigma surround this topic.
For now, know that my cheerful facade conceals the turmoil of countless festivals and outings I’ve endured, and will continue to dread. I wish I could be the “buzzkill” parent who says “no” to everything I find stressful, but I can’t bring myself to do it. So, I sacrifice my own comfort for their happiness, hoping they will create joyful memories that will last a lifetime.
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In summary, my anxiety may transform me into a reluctant parent, but I strive to prioritize my children’s joy over my discomfort, all while navigating the complexities of mental health.